I am never helpless as long as I blink.

As long as I twitch my fingers.

There is a solution to all strife, a way to make risks seem like milky soda crackers to the teeth; I know, I know, if I can just get all of these rutting rabbits out of my tattered top hat I can return my pomegranate head to a state ruddy with art.

This is the first step: don't stare at those parts of that man wearing the loose sarong, just look here at the hands, at the teeth, at the first fur of long ears appearing from the felt mouth.

Look here, into my eyes opened wide; they're the pip-hue of art and love; they're ready to build Icarus a helicopter and still be home in time for Vindaloo chicken.

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